Homeboys Wear Yellow Shades
by Shinnscape
Summary: They're bad, they're bold, they're cool but not COLD-well, actually they're two rich dorks pumped with egos they have no right to be wearing so loudly; now under one ROOF. Pity the roof. Crackfic/pair, Gordie G/Jack Spicer. Yes.


Fandom Crossover fic - **Kick Buttowski meets Xiaolin Showdown**. Two very different (not really) people meet-heads clash; ideas twist, HEARTS MELT-actually, this is just another crackfic with a crack pairing. **Gordie Gibble x Jack Spicer.** THAT'S RIGHT.

Not beta'd. Not sensible. Not...I don't know.

I blame my friend.

SLASH. Deal.

...and, uh, enjoy?

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><p><strong>Chapter 1:<strong> I dig your crib, but where's the SNACKS?

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><p>The kid literally just pulls up to his house, shoves his robot butler out of the way, and makes himself at home in Jack's mansion.<p>

HOW?

"Damn, this ain't no Beverly Hills…Wait, does China have a Beverly Hills? That taxi boy told me this was like the RITZ of China. Ain't no RITZ, son, mad as HizzeL!"

Brown hair, dark eyes, yellow glasses that are more obnoxious than his own goggles sitting on aforementioned brown hair—Jack doesn't even want to get started on the rest of his mix-matched apparel. Purple…green? ORANGE? REALLY? ORANGE STRIPES, REALLY?

"'EY, YO." Fingers are snapping two centimeters from his face, and Jack rears back like a startled pony, giving the kid a startled look. Said kid sneers. "Lookit me when I be talkin' at you, FOO'. I SAID, you got any drinks up in here? Daddy said yo' parents wanted me up in this crib while he meets with them at some hotel or somethin'."

He shrugs off his jacket, tossing it at the same robot that answered the door and covering the Jackbots' vision. Jack breaks out of his stupor enough to feel insulted for his machine.

"HEY! Look, KID, you can't just—!"

"Gordie, foo'."

Jack stops mid-rant. "..What?"

The kid—now GORDIE—looks back at him, eyebrows raised in an unimpressed manner. "You DEAF, son? I said, my name is GORDIE. Gordie GIBBLE. In the HIZZLE." He makes air quotes—then twirls his arms about like noodles on chopsticks into various positions. "GANGSTA. Know what I'm sayin, PLAYA?"

The noodle arms drop, along with the 'gangsta signs', and the kid—err, GORDIE—makes his way to Jack's kitchen like he'd lived there for years.

Jack feels a little stupid, because he has lived here for years and sometimes HE forgets where the kitchen is (hey, he practically LIVES in the basement, OK?).

"AAAHH, WHOA WHOA, NAH. NAH, NAH, NAH. BACK IT UP, FOO, BACK IT UUUP dumpsta TRUCK!"

…What NOW?

Jack follows the annoyed, LOUD yells into his kitchen, taking in the scene before him. Looks like mom forgot to call the family that usually takes their puppy dog when they're at meetings—either she remembered Jack was here, or forgot about yet ANOTHER living, dependent thing exisiting in their house. Either is possible, really.

…Anyways…Said puppy (Jack sometimes like to call him Gidget, but mom didn't like it and called him something else that Jack didn't bother to remember because GIDGET) was slobbering all over Gordie's pants and shoes.

"Homeboy" wasn't having it, apparently—but Jack was getting quite a laugh!

"Dawg. HEY, DAWG. DAAAWWWWG."

It took Jack a few precious seconds (which he'd NEVER get back, EVER) to realize that this…kid was referring to HIM…Jack Spicer.

Said kid was giving him the STANK of all stink eyes, though they kept darting back to the flighty little pooch now snuffling and puffing about his fancy, clean shoes.

"YO, DAWG - get yo' DOG off my DOGS, dawg!"

Jack sneered, but otherwise decided there was only room for ONE little rich boy to make a series of complaints in this household, and made his way over to grab at the excited puppy's collar. He dragged the ecstatic pup off and away from "The Gibble", leading him to the kitchen door before giving him a 'punishing' tap to the behind that meant "GET LOST and chew on dad's fancy imported socks".

The little pup merrily obliged, as fancy white platform shoes were out of sight, but not dad's precious socks.

Meanwhile, in Mommy Spicer's kitchen, Jack had his arms crossed, sneer - MOST DEFINITELY not a POUT, thanks - in permanent place on his pale face.

Gordie was trash talking his mother's blender.

The one Jack made into a violent, dancing robot. (No, not violently dancing - it danced AND was violent, two separate things that made Jack feel sorry to put it down)

BUT ANYWAYS, NOT COOL, BRO. Jack, being an external creature of WORDS and expression, decided this could not be left unsaid. So he said it. "NOT COOL, BRO."

Gordie's head literally whipped around so fast, Jack expected to hear little screams from inside his mane. The other boy's eyes narrowed. "Say WHA', BRAH?"

"You HEARD me, BRO."

"NO, WHA', BRAH?"

"YEAH…uh…WHA, BRO."

"BRAH."

"…Uh, no, I'm a DUDE, dude—uh, BRO."

Gordie looked at him like he'd used the Ring of Nine Dragons. "NAH, NAH, BRAH. That's not how we DO. You say BRAH, not BRO. And I ain't no DUDE - Imma BRAH or THE GIBBLER—" he grinned, all shiny platinum pearl teeth that Jack wanted his Jackbots to punch out, so PERFECT—"but only to mah FANZ, whaaaat!"

Then the kid starts making obscene hip thrusting movements. "UH, WHAT, BRAH—YOU MAD? YOU SO MAD, BRAH? Haterz ain't gonna bring me DOWN, booooooy."

Jack stared.

To his credit, he also blinked.

But mostly, he stared.

Then, he remembered he was intelligent, despite having to listen to…whatever just came out of this obnoxious (more so than HIM! JACK SPICER)….THING.

Jack's face makes friendly with the palm of his hand, fingers pinching between the eyes and lips tightened to 'I just licked a terribly sour lemon' mode, as if trying to keep the stupidity from entering through his facial openings.

"…Look…Gibbledy Goo, I—"

"WHA. OH HELL NAW, BRAH—"

"—You seem CONFUSED—"

"—KNOW YOU AIN'T JUST—OH HELL NAW—"

"—and I don't do well with people crazier than I am—"

"—DON'T KNOW ME, DON'T KNOW WHO I IS—"

"—HELL, I don't do well with people, at ALL—"

"—COMIN ALL AT ME LIKE—NAH, NAH, BRAH!—"

"—and this has been a VERY funny JOKE, but I just can't—"

"—AND WHAT. GONNA HEAR FROM MY PEEPZ, YO—"

"—I just can't stand you. This relationship HAS BEEN FUN," and here, he really made sure to SCREAM the next words, because Gordie was only getting HIGHER IN VOLUME, and if anyone can give him a run for that money—"BUT I DON'T SEE US GOING ANYWHERE, OK? NOW GET OUT OF MY HOUSE AND DON'T KEEP THE KEYS, WE'RE DONE HERE, BABY. LATER."

…

Silence. It's almost….too good to be REAL (and from Jack, that's something—he usually HATES silence).

….Gibble is giving him a LOOK. Not the same look as before, but like…like…

…how to describe in terms of Gordie…

'What am I, bling he wants to buy?'

…oh, SHIT.

"…Baby? You…" Gordie is walking towards him now, but really, it's more of a STRUT, but it's too slow and really it's…it's…

…it's…DEAR GOD, it's a PROWL.

"You jus'…call me BABY, homeboy?" Gordie was right in front of him, now - barely an inch or two shorter, but that STARE - that LOOK - it makes him seem the same height…no, TALLER. Like he's…he's looking DOWN at Jack and—

—hey. He…really IS looking…down…and up. And down. And up.

'…is he checking me OUT?'

"Like a library book…BABY." Jack literally JUMPS in surprise. Gordie's looking him in the eyes, again, thankfully—but now Jack's eyes are the ones not focusing on the other boy's face. However, his bounce around like an off-course satellite, looking wildly about the kitchen as if trying to find the nearest weapon or shield.

THIS IS GROUND CONTROL, CAPTAIN.

"So, uh…" This is all wrong. Gordie's tone has completely changed. It's smooth and LOW, like a long field with mild bumps that send a THUD THUD in Jack's heart, and his hands are sweating now, because he's not USED to people looking at him like this and it's—! "You a fan of mine? That it? You set this up, dawg? That it? Huh?"

NOT GOOD, CAPTAIN. NOT GOOD. WE ARE NOT CLEAR FOR LANDING—TAKE OFF.

"'Cuz, uh, well—hehe, this ain't the first time," and he's carding fingers through those locks, Gordie, and Jack recognizes a flirtatious move even if he's never actually HAD one used on him; wonders of television—and OH GOD, he's FLIRTING, now? "And ain't no need to be all embarrassed, son. I had some boys hangin round for mah swag, too. You KNOW."

He just made some weird, pointy motion things with his hands and fingers that sway over and down to his crotch—

ABORT. ABORT. ABORT. ABORT, CAPTAIN, WE NEED AIR SUPPORT, STAT.

"I understand, dawg. I mean…It's all good, son. People love what my mama gave me and that's just a thang. You can dig it!"

By this point, Jack's face is scrunched up in HORROR and he's sure he's getting sick—there CAN'T be any other explanation for those weird little twists in his stomach. THERE JUST CAN'T.

"So, where do ya want me to sign?"

Gordie suddenly pulls a pen out of nowhere—or somewhere, but Jack, for his own sanity, actually like NOWHERE better because he's been in showdowns that come from NOWHERE and that's better than thinking of that pen coming out of a SOMEWHERE—and now Gordie is flexing that pen dangerously close over his skin, looking like a crazed surgeon ready to operate in a madhouse.

And he's still freaking TALKING while Jack gapes like a horrified fish person. "—like, some dudes and chickadees want me to sign on the chest—"

Jack faints before the pen reaches a pectoral.

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><p><strong>End...<strong>

**...for now? (I hope so)**


End file.
